


The Apothecary and The Illusionist

by NamethePigeonRaymond



Category: Doctor Who, Doctor Who (2005)
Genre: Alternate Universe, Alternate Universe - Fantasy, F/F, Gen, Victorian, magicians au
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-07-25
Updated: 2020-07-25
Packaged: 2021-03-06 01:14:58
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,854
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/25505038
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/NamethePigeonRaymond/pseuds/NamethePigeonRaymond
Summary: Two magicians are drawn in a duel they do not understand in a quest to enchant Victorian London, a dangerous legacy laid down by their ancient rival factions. Inspired by The Night Circus.
Relationships: Amy Pond/Rory Williams, The Doctor/River Song, Thirteenth Doctor & Graham O'Brien, Thirteenth Doctor & Yasmin Khan, Thirteenth Doctor & Yasmin Khan & Ryan Sinclair, Thirteenth Doctor/River Song
Comments: 2
Kudos: 10





	The Apothecary and The Illusionist

The circus arrives without warning. Its deep maroon big top rose and sparkled like the moon in the night, drawing people in to where it stood as if out of a dream and giving way to a whole clearing of small tents housing wonders that could not possibly be of this world. Factory workers, aristocrats, children and labourers alike crossed the Westminster Bridge to the edge of town to witness the spectacle, enchanted by glowing gardens, flying horses, and mermaids underwater. 

Word spread like wildfire of the impossible illusions, as people marvelled and gawked, yet all the while believing they were seeing a successful trick of the light, a clever sleight of hand, a form of mutual pretense held up by a willingness to be fooled. They were fooled indeed, but only in thinking these were mere artifice, and not magic. 

But the Doctor, as she is called these days, knows. It is magic, and she has felt it in her bones since the circus appeared — felt it pulling her now, invisible strings binding her in recognition, anticipation. She understood as soon as she saw the fairground from the top of the bridge. Her challenger was here. It was to begin. 

She was still carrying her blue travelling apothecary medicine case where her potions and powders were held and slung over her shoulder — hardly the time for jostling with others. But her feet seemed to move involuntarily as she reached the other side of the Thames. 

A banner hung at the entrance of the circus, announcing the _Greatest Show in the Galaxy_. 

Children were shrieking in excitement, popcorn in hand, kicking up a dust storm as they ran. Couples took cover in the anonymous crowd to huddle in a rare opportunity for proximity, while groups of friends grew louder in their assured circumference of a good night ahead. 

The Doctor crossed under the banner and immediately a sort of liquid fire was lit within her. She felt it pulsing to the strokes of a bonfire in the middle of the fairground, as flames licked and grew dangerously, beautifully, casting shadows on people’s faces as they strolled about unawares. Though it was a strong fire, she could sense the bonds of magic placed on it, containing it. Her challenger must have done so. 

“Come on! I want to get good seats for the show,” she heard a woman in a grey bonnet say in excitement as a couple ran past her into the big top where heavy fabric parted at the bottom in a large entrance to welcome all into a cavernous space beyond. The Doctor followed. 

By the time she entered, the steps that ascended from the rounded stage in the middle were filled to the brim with folks chattering and laughing. She edged into a seat at the back, squeezed in between the couple from before and a group of middle-class men who looked out of place in their long-tailed coats and stuffy cravats, black top hats in their laps. One of them eyed her suspiciously as she sat down, likely disapproving of her sartorial choice of white dress shirt, waistcoat and pants, but said nothing. 

No one, it seemed, could resist the circus. 

She only managed to place her blue apothecary box gently in front of her boots when the show began. 

The ringmaster appeared to thundering applause and rousing cheers. He was dressed in a loud red coat with shiny black lapels that matched his velvet vest underneath, a black top hat ringed with a strip of gold ribbon that barely hid the brown hair that flopped on his forehead - oddly the most charming, honest detail in his entire getup. He had a grin like he knew all the good secrets. 

When he spoke, curiously he carried a crisp American accent. “Welcome one and all to the Greatest Show in the Galaxy. We have flying acrobats! We have death-defying acts. We have animals, we have freaks!” This earned a round of applause, for which the ringmaster has allowed a well-rehearsed pause. 

“We can show you incredible things you could not even dream of. Be prepared. Tonight, we will dazzle you, we will enthrall you, we will shock you — and you’ll never be the same.” More shouts, already awed. Could it be him?

If the Doctor reached out and tugged, she could unravel all of the ringmaster easily on display — all wrapped up in showmanship yes — but with an enduring openness presented to the world without fault. No, it wasn’t him. 

After the ringmaster successfully stirred everyone to the edge of their seats, the spectacle began. First, an animal performance saw the trainer show off a pair of stallions in synchrony. Then, a group of four acrobats entered the ring riding unicycles in unison, before proceeding to propel one another into the air as weightless as the wind, as precise as a needle. Incredible talent, but no magic here. 

Midway through the third act of an aerialist hanging from two crimson robes, the Doctor could almost forget the pulsing of the bonfire within her — only just nearly put her tension down right beside her apothecary box. 

As the audience stared in awe at the aerialist tumbling gracefully down the robes she had wrapped around her pale legs, her hair a flaming auburn, the Doctor sensed the presence of another to which the aerialist was bound. She shifted her gaze down and caught sight of a thin honey brown-haired man in overalls standing alone to the left of the arena half-hidden behind a curtain leading backstage, his eyes transfixed on the aerialist. It was as if they were tied to one another by a red string. 

Sometimes the Doctor could see the threads which tethered people — husbands and wives, mothers and daughters — but this bond was something alive. She trembled to hold it between her fingers, feeling at once enticed by the warmth of their connection and utterly isolated standing on the margins of them. 

When the aerialist landed softly on the ground, she raised her arms in a victorious gesture to receive the thunderous applause that greeted the end of her act. Her eyes shone, before searching and landing on the man, who was smiling shyly back at her. The Doctor’s breath caught at the base of her throat. It was a small moment for the aerialist and the man in overalls, but it felt monumental — as if the world slid into place. The Doctor let go of their bond, shutting the two people out of her mind, though they were too wrapped up in each other to have sensed her presence, or have been on the guard against someone like her. 

Neither the aerialist nor the man she loved was her challenger. Yet something incredibly cold and remote sank in the depths of Doctor’s stomach. It was an oddly familiar and ancient sensation, like she had felt it years ago but now could not name it, and as she sifted through herself in incredulity, she almost missed the beginning of the next act. 

“-put our hands together to welcome our world-famous illusionist Miss River Song!”

“Thank you, Mr Harkness.” The woman’s voice was of a smooth, warm timbre, but that was not what made the Doctor whip her head up in attention. It was rather the fire within her that glimmered in response. 

The woman who stood next to the ringmaster was dressed in a white dress with golden beading that cinched in at the waist before flaring out in an elegant skirt that flowed to the ground. Her hair was similarly golden — wild curls that seemed untameable. She wore white gloves up to her forearms, which were held open to the audience. A wicked smile that revealed as much as it concealed hung on her lips. “Let’s begin, shall we?” 

Soon, Miss River Song was alone in the middle of the stage. Something golden gleamed and emanated from her as if a beacon, and as she continued to hold her arms up, resplendent swirls of energy appeared around her and snaked towards the audience. The Doctor’s pulse roared. 

But this time it wasn’t only the Doctor who could see, who could traverse space to touch. Murmurs and gasps rippled through the audience as everyone in the big top gazed at the golden swirls in amazement.

Dots of yellow filled her vision. The Doctor was thinking absently of fireflies when she felt herself tipped backwards. 

She was standing outside an inn and it was snowing. The warm lights and loud chatting of people inside drew her closer to the windows — a merriment permeated of which she stood distinctly outside. A sign hung at the top of the window: The Rose & Crown. Light flakes of snow fell on the sign as a painting of a large red rose swung gently in the wind. Instead of entering the inn, she rounded the corner where it stood to enter a wide alley which had been dusted lightly with snow. 

A woman in a red dress and lush brown locks of hair stood at the backdoor from the pub into the alley. She was staring at a snowman. 

The Doctor felt a beat of curiosity plucked within her, but for some reason she walked ahead between the woman and the snowman, not knowing where exactly she was going and yet knowing she had already gone there. 

“Did you make this snowman?” The woman’s voice stopped her mid-step. 

“No,” the Doctor responded, not bothering to look back.

“Well, who did?” The woman asked, “‘Course it wasn’t there a second ago. It just appeared. From nowhere.”

The Doctor could not ignore the screaming curiosity within her any moment longer. She whirled around and strode back. Fishing a pair of eyeglasses she didn’t know she had from her coat pocket and putting it on, she turned to the woman, who had large brown eyes, inviting and demanding. _Who are you?_ She wanted to ask. 

Instead she turned to the snowman, grasping a little snow from it. “Maybe it’s snow that fell before. Maybe it remembers how to make snowmen.”

“What, snow that can remember? That’s silly.” 

“What’s wrong with silly?”

“Nothing,” The woman looked up and down the snowman before fixing the Doctor with her steely but delighted gaze. “Still talking to you, ain’t I.” She smiled, a little, as if challenging the Doctor to contradict her. She seemed game for anything. 

The Doctor felt something tug up her lips despite herself. She removed her eyeglasses. “What’s your name?”

“Clara.”

“Nice name, Clara. You should definitely keep it.” As the words fell out of her mouth, she thought she must have said them before. But she couldn’t have. 

Then, she remembered. She was watching a circus performance. What was she doing here? Where _was_ here? 

Ignoring Clara with the large brown eyes, the Doctor plunged far into the recesses of her mind. It felt like swimming against the tide. She seemed to have dove further in than she had ever done before — the only trouble is this wasn’t her memory — was it? She was as sure that she didn’t know a Clara as she was certain she did. As she searched, she found a gap — a ladder, really, and she reached. 

Then, she was in a dark bedroom. A small, stark bed stood in the corner, while wind-up clockwork toys and teddy bears were strewn across the wooden-planked floor. It was a child’s bedroom. But there was no warmth here. The Doctor crouched to examine the toys — one of the teddy bears had been emptied out, its cotton spilling forth from its torso. 

She felt a surge of panic that wasn’t hers course through her. Terrified, a gasp seized her and shoved her back into her body. 

Suddenly she was at the circus again, sitting amongst others. But she could not see them. All she could see was Miss River Song, centre-stage, still touched in amber, staring back at her. All smug performance had drained out of Miss Song — her countenance stricken. Her eyes flared with confusion, with need. 

The Doctor rose involuntarily out of her seat. She understood immediately that the memory of the dark bedroom with the disembowelled teddy bear was Miss Song’s — that in pushing back against Miss Song’s illusions, she had pulled up a real memory of hers to the surface. But what about Clara and the inn? Whose memories were those? Was it simply a dream by Miss Song’s hand? 

Their questions were swirling between them, growing larger and more oppressive. 

Without a doubt, Miss Song was her challenger. And she was powerful. 

Hastily throwing her guard up and barricading her mind from Miss Song, though it was much too late, the Doctor grabbed her apothecary box and fled the circus.

——— 

Mr O’Brien was already in the one-pair shop when the Doctor came through the street door, travelling blue box slung over her shoulder. Sat behind his desk in the corner, as private as they could manage in this small space, he was poring over the morning newspapers, eyeglasses low over his nose. 

“Mornin’, Mr O’Brien,” the Doctor greeted, as she swung her box on the counter and walked behind it. 

“Good mornin’ cockle,” he looked up from his papers and smiled warmly, his eyes watery from age and crinkling from kindness. 

As a physician Graham O’Brien had spent most of his life treating patients in Yorkshire, and had set up shop in London together with his late wife Grace. Most physicians would never be caught dead operating from an apothecary shop, but when Graham happened upon Grace, she was a skilled druggist herself, making do in small villages where people could not afford physicians. He often told the Doctor stories of how Grace had noticed symptoms in patients he neglected, or prescribed medicines that proved better. The Doctor frequently wished she had met her. 

She opened her travelling box and surveyed the vials that required restocking. News of her effectiveness in treating poorly constitutions had gained her many patients in recent times. Of course, nobody thought the potency of her drafts lay in magic. 

“Well, that circus looks proper fun now,” Mr O’Brien said, examining a story in the paper. “You should go and have a gander. Have a rest day.” 

The Doctor dared to chance a glance at Mr O’Brien, whose gaze was still directed downwards on his paper as he held a corner up. She swallowed, then said haltingly, “Yeah, ‘course. Perhaps.” 

At this, he gave her a practised reprimanding look. Before he could admonish her for working too hard, she said, “It’s a night circus! I’ll go after my appointments.” Despite a ball of unease roiling in her, she knew it was true the moment she declared it. 

Mr O’Brien almost tutted at her. “It’ll do a young lady no good to be spending all her time at an apothecary with an old geezer like me.”

“What, why ever not?” The Doctor shrank back in mock outrage. “You’re my old geezer and y’know it.”

He opened his mouth to respond, but did not know what to do with this blatant show of fondness so he opted for, “D’you have many appointments today?” 

The Doctor grinned. “No house calls, but I’ve been getting more walk-ins lately.” 

“Soon, all of London will have heard of you and they’ll have no need of me anymore,” Mr O’Brien said in pride. “And there’s one already.”

Surely enough, someone had creaked the street door open and entered, bringing a momentary gust of chill wind in with her. 

“Miss Khan!” Mr O’Brien moved out of his chair to greet the heiress, who was dressed in a buttoned plum coat with puffed sleeves and a matching hat. Like always, she wore a lovely smile, which widened when she saw the both of them. 

“Mr O’Brien,” she politely bowed her hello. 

“All right there, love?” He asked, grandfatherly. 

“Hiya, Miss Khan,” The Doctor greeted, opening her records book. “Not run out of draughts, have you?”

Yasmin Khan was the daughter of a self-made businessman, who was one of the most renowned spice traders in London. With his self-taught knowledge of English and understanding of local customs, Hakim Khan was able to navigate the designs of the East India Company much more to his advantage than his fellow countrymen. The Khans were some of the most connected, fashionable and charitable families in town. Yasmin and her sister Sonya were brought up by the best governesses around. 

“Oh no, not at all,” Miss Khan said, waving her gloved arms in emphasis. “I have not slept so splendidly in years. Like an infant, really. And it’s all due to your herbals, Doctor. I am most truly obliged.” 

“I am so glad to hear it, Miss Khan, but then why have you come?” The Doctor asked as she found the entry on Miss Khan in her books to peruse her notes. Miss Khan had been having trouble sleeping for years, and despite her family physician’s knighthood and royal relations, the common insomnia remedy was still gin or brandy — neither of which Miss Khan could have. 

She looked sheepish. “Oh, I - I was just doing some shopping with Mama down the street and thought to drop by. I hope I’m not interrupting?”

“Not at all, lass,” Mr O’Brien said warmly. “But I’m due for a house call in a moment, so the Doctor will keep you company, won’t she?”

“Uh, um, yes. Yes, of course.” To which Miss Khan beamed with joy. 

And then Mr O’Brien was gone, leaving the Doctor to glance awkwardly at Miss Khan. She knew how to interact with patients, but was really not used to social niceties. 

Miss Khan leaned across the counter towards the Doctor. “I hope I’m not committing an error in saying — we have met enough times for us to be friends, don’t you think?”

The Doctor blinked. “I - well - yes, I think so.” 

“My friends call me Yaz - uh-uh,” She put up a hand to pre-empt the Doctor’s reply, which caught on her tongue. “Not Miss Khan. Not Yasmin. Yaz.” 

“Yaz,” the Doctor said, as if trying out the shape of the name in her mouth. She liked it, she decided, and smiled brightly at — with — Yaz. 

“I suppose I have to make up for all of the closeness, considering I don’t even know your name,” Yaz said, a little embarrassed, a bit inquisitive. 

The Doctor’s smile faltered a little, but she pressed it back on hurriedly. “Ah, my name’s not important, really.”

“Whose name isn’t important?” 

The Doctor flattened her lips into a thin line, considering her response, wanting — for once — to be truthful. She searched Yaz for a beat, beginning with her open, curious face, then burrowing further in to parse between layers. She found a bright light in the middle of where the woman stood. 

Finally, the Doctor said, “I had a bit of a complicated childhood. But I very much chose my title, and I should incline to be called the Doctor from now on.” 

Yaz seemed to accept this answer. “All right then. After all, you are an exceedingly good doctor.”

“Thank you,” the Doctor could not help a flicker of warmth within her. 

But Yaz’s curiosity was hardly sated. The light within her grew, as her eyes sparkled. “Because we’re friends you have to tell me the truth, Doctor. What do you put in those potions for my sleeplessness? Do not misunderstand me, I have not been overwakeful in days. But your draught has had such a composing influence on me that I’ve been dreaming of the most wonderful places.”

The Doctor could barely breathe. “How do you mean, Miss - I mean - Yaz?”

“I know not how else to describe the sensation. It is like a door has opened in my mind. A gate to other worlds. When I step through, I see incredible things, marvellous people. It is as though I am in a different dimension. Perchance, it’s a kind of...dimensional engineering?”

In that moment the Doctor wished her magic extended to halting time. But time seemed to stand still nonetheless, as she felt she was falling inside herself for fear of being discovered. Until now no one had sensed anything different about the Doctor’s draughts before — nor suspected that the Doctor was using more than useful herbals in her healing, her enchanting. And yet Yasmin Khan had quite nearly named it. 

Her heart was a caged bird demanding flight. 

“Doctor?” Yaz’s eyes darted across the Doctor’s face, a perplexed frown hung between her brows. 

“I’m sorry, Yaz, I must confess I’ve no clue as to the origins of your dreams. You must have an immense imagination,” the Doctor said, hating herself, but keeping her expression carefully shielded. 

Yaz pondered for a moment, looking as if she wanted to ask more questions, but then she seemed to resolve herself, allowing disappointment to shine through. “How curious. I suppose I’ll have to wait ‘till sundown to witness those remarkable worlds again.” 

Somehow her disappointment was simply a little too much for the Doctor to bear. Recklessly, she made a decision. 

“Yaz, have you heard of the circus?”

——— 

This time when the Doctor returned to the night circus, she was armed with an amulet of imperviousness which she had enchanted as well as the comfort of a friend. 

Yaz came racing to meet her at the entrance, dressed in dark baggy harem pants that cleverly disguised as a skirt. Catching her breath, she said, “I could only leave after telling Papa I was retiring to bed.”

The Doctor led Yaz through, under the banner that promised the _Greatest Show in the Galaxy_. 

Eyes widened and exuberance bubbling easily at the surface, Yaz took in the wonders of the circus with such overjoyed marvel that the Doctor revelled in the sights in a way that she could not the night before. 

They visited a few of the numerous tents on display, and the Doctor could almost forget about Miss River Song, the linchpin from which these spellbinding illusions sprang. Along with Yaz, she yelped and laughed when a blue head on a table opened his eyes and began talking at them. And they stood fascinated gazing up at a large white whale floating in the middle of another tent, seemingly breathing. The Doctor had glanced at Yaz then to catch a quick tear track down her cheek and vanish under her jaw. 

The universe was a thing of rarity to Yaz, not a house for enchantments, nor an arena for battle. The Doctor felt herself wooed. That bright light within Yaz was reaching out and pulling in, and today it found the Doctor, illuminating them both.

They had just come out of a tent filled quite impossibly with dewy forests, still drenched in disbelief, when a tussle near a station of carnival games caught their attention. 

“You dirty, cheatin’ negro!” Two dock workers were shouting at a third, and they had pushed him until he stumbled to the ground. 

Before the Doctor could react, Yaz had run up to them. “Yaz, no-”

Yaz crouched down beside the third man. He was wearing dark grey flannel and his duckbill hat had fallen down on the ground next to him. Yaz asked, “Are you hurt?” 

The other two men took instant offence. One of them snarled at Yaz, “Mind yer business, yer filthy Indian.” He advanced towards Yaz. 

The Doctor acted before she realised what she was doing. She cut herself into the dock worker’s mind, opening it up like a surgeon examining a cadaver. With some people, it was easy, their pain screaming to breach. She quickly found a particularly nasty streak in the man, laid down by years of violence experienced in childhood. She picked at the thread and then pushed. 

The man stopped abruptly and yelled in anguish, cradling his head with his hands. The other agitating dock worker drew back in shock, momentarily stunned by the sudden onslaught on his friend. Yaz stared, unmoving in fear. As the man devolved into wailing, a crowd had begun to form around them; even circus performers were curiously approaching the spectacle. It was the ugliest thing the Doctor had ever done, trembling and barely seeing anything else.

In the confusion, the Doctor found Yaz, coming on the other side of the fallen man to help him up. “What’s your name?” 

The man’s eyes flicked from Yaz to the Doctor, anxious but trusting. “It’s Ryan. Ryan Sinclair.” 

“Come on, Mr Sinclair. Let’s get a shift on,” the Doctor tilted her head outwards and Ryan nodded quickly, grabbing his hat. She and Yaz pulled him up and they shoved through the crowd. 

They found their way to a well-trodden path between two tents far into the fairground, arriving at the top of a mound that looked over a grass clearing bisected by old, rusted train tracks, before the Doctor and Yaz released Mr Sinclair together, who relaxed considerably as tension poured out of him. Looking over her shoulder in exhaustion, the Doctor saw that they were alone, away from the action, though she could not help feeling watched. 

“Thank you both,” Mr Sinclair said as he smoothly put his hat back on. The Doctor turned back towards him. “You shouldn’t ‘ave done that, but it were mighty good o’ ya.” 

“Of course,” Yaz said, “Are you feeling all right, Mr Sinclair?” 

He smiled easily in agreement, though it barely hid a faint grimace. “They’ve had a bone to pick with me since my first day down at the port. They made a bet that I weren’t able to beat them at ring tossin’.” He looked red-faced now. “I - I’m not usually too good at these sorta things, but I spent a month’s wages to practise for a whole week. And they just couldn’t take that a negro like me beat them.” 

“That’s horrible,” Yaz said sympathetically. “They should be meeting the terms of your bet as you won fair and square.” 

“Life just ain’t fair, is it,” Mr Sinclair shrugged. Yaz looked to the Doctor but she did not know what balm could possibly soothe this injustice. In their silence, Mr Sinclair chuckled, “What are your names then?”

Yaz grinned. “I’m Yasmin Khan but you can call me Yaz, and that’s the Doctor.” 

“Pleased to meet your acquaintance, Yaz and the Doctor,” he said, removing his hat and giving a little bow. “Please call me Ryan.”

“Ryan,” Yaz repeated, stretching her hand towards him. If he was surprised that a lady like Yasmin Khan was offering a handshake, he did not show it. He clapped it with his own and nodded. 

“Good to meet you, Ryan,” the Doctor nodded back. She refrained from holding her hand out, still reeling from the forced connection with the dock worker. 

Yaz turned to the Doctor, questions back in her eyes. “What happened to the man? It sounded so awful.” 

Could it be? Did Yaz somehow know it was her? Still shaking slightly, her mouth dry, the Doctor was about to answer when-

“As usual, River was right! There you are!” An unbelievably Scottish voice sounded from behind her. 

The Doctor whirled around to find none other than the red-haired aerialist, the man in overalls and Miss River Song approaching. Already on edge, the Doctor felt like sinking into herself.

The red-haired aerialist continued, hazel eyes gleaming, “We saw what happened earlier. You three were fantastic! We’ve banned those two troublemakers from the circus. We have no place for bullies here. And we would love to treat you to some bags o’ mystery, right Rory?” 

The man in overalls — Rory — bobbed his head in agreement, though he’s likely never disagreed with her in his life. “How do you do? I’m Rory Williams and this is-”

“Miss Amelia Pond!” Ryan exclaimed, starstruck. Miss Pond preened a little at the recognition. “I’ve watched your show two times now. You are amazin’.”

“Ta now, yes it is me,” she flicked her long locks of auburn over her shoulder in mock vanity, though still clearly enjoying the praise. Miss Pond shuffled back to introduce the third person standing between herself and Rory, holding her by the shoulders. “You must know her too then — our lovely illusionist River Song. She surmised you came here, you’ll find that she knows everything.” 

Miss River Song was no longer in her stage costume. She was dressed in a long-sleeved white dress shirt with bell cuffs, a simple brown skirt and a thick black leather belt. She looked nothing like the ethereal performer on stage, but she was still glowing. “Good evening,” she gave a little wave at Yaz and Ryan and then focused her full attention on the Doctor, who swallowed a gasp. 

“Who are you?” Miss Song asked. 

The fire within the Doctor pulsed steadily, waxing and waning as she breathed. She borrowed from her own flame to light up the world ahead of her; all she could find were Miss Song, her emerald eyes and her golden hair. 

“I’m the Doctor.” 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Alas, I am back with another story, this time heavily inspired by the concept of The Night Circus, a brilliant book by Erin Morgenstern. Writing for a different time period is a new challenge for me, so please forgive any anachronisms. Enjoy!


End file.
